Page 77 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"A random man is less memorable than a beautiful girl asking questions."

He has a point. Wait, did he just compliment me?

I watch him approach the truck, all casual grace and contained power. He makes small talk look easy. Brody’s presence commands respect.

When he returns, his face gives nothing away.

"Well?" I say as soon as he opens the door.

"Number 35. Around the corner."

My stomach drops. We're close now—close to answers I might not want.

Apartment 35's door stands in front of us, paint peeling around rusted numbers. The sound of a TV bleeds through thin walls. My hands won't stop shaking.

Brody's breath warms my neck. "We don't have to."

But we do. Because for days I've imagined her dead in some trunk, when really... "I need to know."

I knock. The TV drones on. Knock again. "Hello? Is anybody home? Reese?"

There are a few moments, but I see the shadow of a figure under the door. They must be looking through the peep hole. I inhale, my nerves making me shake even more.

The door opens and my world tilts sideways. Because there she is—alive, unfazed, looking at me like I'm an inconvenience rather than her daughter who thought she was dead.

"Mom?" The word comes out breathless because what the fuck.

"Lola." She steps into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. Her eyes find Brody, calculating. She's either high or mentally unwell.

"What are you doing here?" My voice shakes as if I wasn’t the one snooping around for her. I mean, the last thing I expected was to see her face.

"How'd you find me?" No hug. No explanation. Just suspicion.

"Are you serious?" Heat rises in my throat. "I thought you were—"

"I'm free now." She shrugs like the past week means nothing. "Should thank you for that, I guess."

"Thank me?" Hysteria bubbles up. "I've been terrified, Mom. I thought—"

"You look fine to me." Her eyes slide to Brody again. "More than fine."

"Mom!" I force her attention back. "I can’t fucking believe this right now. I mean what ever happened? Why are you here? Are you okay? Are you safe?"

She waves off my concern. "Got any money?"

The question hits like a slap. "Money? I've been worried sick, mom!"

"I'm fine. I’m a big girl, Lola." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "How's that fancy college treating you? Making good connections?" Another pointed look at Brody.

"He's just a friend." The lie tastes bitter.

She laughs—that awful, knowing laugh I've heard my whole life. "Sure, baby. Whatever you say."

"Do you have my phone number?"

"Of course."

"Use it. Please." I hate how I'm still begging after everything.

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